Sorry, Bro by Genevieve Bergeron Page A

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    Now, at the opposite end of the row, a tall, shirtless man had just tossed a striped polo into a navy blue gym bag. He turned just as Bryce looked his way.
    Bryce hitched his shorts back up around his hips and pivoted to the left so that he faced the corner. His black boxer briefs wouldn’t have been enough to hide the fact he’d gone more than three weeks without sex. He glanced back over his shoulder and met the new arrival’s eyes for just a moment before whipping his head back around. Without hesitating, he dropped his shorts and scrambled into his scrub pants. The man wouldn’t have been able to see the growing bulge inside Bryce’s underwear, but he still felt awkward changing in front of another guy while his cock was hard. Or worse, he didn’t want to be accused of sexual harassment or indecent exposure and lose his job.
    The outline of Bryce’s penis was barely visible through the thin, blue fabric of his pants. He grabbed a clipboard from the back of his locker and held it casually over his crotch as he turned and walked towards the exit. He didn’t look up, but saw the man’s face turn towards him as he swept out of the door and onto the main floor of the hospital.
    He clutched the clipboard as he made his way through the drab, fluorescent-lit hall and up a flight of stairs. Once he reached the nurse’s station in the Coronary Care Unit, he had himself under control and tossed the clipboard aside.
    Trina, the nurse tech, smiled up at him. “What’s up, tiger? You’re a little early today.”
    Bryce shrugged. “Figured I would get an early start on the rounds.” He forced a smile.
    “You should smile more often. You have a nice mouth,” Trina said. She smiled back and flipped her dark hair before reaching into a deep drawer from which she produced a stack of multi-coloured papers and plastic folders. “Here are the charts,” she said. “By the way, they’re two short in surgery. You may have to cover for some of the nurses there, especially if we get a surgery up from the ER.”
    Bryce grimaced. Just what he needed. He never liked the sight of blood or guts. Not that it ever really bothered him, not after a year of medical school. It was just…he was never so keen on the idea of the unexpected. In a way, surgery was like taking a car apart to figure out what’s wrong with it. Even with a diagnosis, surgery was a messy, red crap shoot, minus any potential winnings. He’d have to spend a boozy night at Harrah’s for that.
    “My lucky day,” Bryce said. His boner had shrunk to a manageable size now. And after Trina’s announcement, it wouldn’t be something he’d have to worry about until the end of his twelve-hour shift.

    “How’s Tatum?” Trina asked casually. Bryce had told her that the two of them had had some problems. What it boiled down to, Trina had pointed out, was that the two of them lacked anything in common.
    Bryce had considered Trina’s observation. When the two had met in a bar on Toulouse Street, Tatum had seemed provocative, exciting—new. But in their relationship, it had become increasingly common for Tatum to need a drink before she would put out. And more and more frequently, Bryce felt unsatisfied, even after the most acrobatic and creative of fucks.
    Bryce flipped back the cover of the top folder, a deep purple, and studied the chart for the new patient in three-oh-four. History of arrhythmia. Chest pains late the evening before. No evidence of a coronary event, but the hospital was keeping him under observation for a day or so to make sure nothing more serious had caused the irregularity.
    Bryce closed the folder, but he didn’t look up. “Tatum?” He paused. “She’s the same.”
    “Have you talked to her?”
    “Wouldn’t change much.” Bryce shrugged. “I love her, that’s all that matters, right?”
    Bryce told himself that he loved Tatum. Maybe that’s why he kept putting up with her shit. If it wasn’t the sex, then it must be love